Friday, June 24, 2016

At origins we were provided with our own area, which was even clearly marked on the map! The space was perfectly sized having enough room for game play and auxiliary tables on and under which all the various units not in play and carrying cases could be stored or stacked.

Tuesday, June 21, 2016

A total of 380 Leopard 2 were built in the first batch, 209 by Krauss-Maffei (chassis nbr. 10001 to 10210) and 171 by Mak (chassis nbr. 20001 to 20172), with the first six delivered in 1979 to Kampftruppenschule 2 in Münster. Another 100 were delivered in 1980 and 229 in 1981, replacing the M48A2G in units among I (GE) Corps. The first Leopard 2 went to Panzerbattalions 31, 33 and 34 of 1 Panzerdivision, with partially parallel delivery to Panzerbattalions 81, 85 and 84 of 5 Panzerdivision. The Leopard 1s then in service were passed to the Panzerbattalions of the Panzergrenadier Divisions, were they replaced the M48A2G. By 1982 production was running at 300 a year, with the last first batch Leopard 2 delivered in March of that year.

The young lieutenant lay beside the war correspondent and admired the idyllic calm of the enemy's lines through his field glass.

'So far as I can see,' he said at last, 'one man.'

'What's he doing?' asked the war correspondent.

'Field-glass at us,' said the young lieutenant.

'And this is war?'

'No,' said the young lieutenant, 'it's Bloch.'

'The game's a draw.'

'No! They've got to win or else they lose. A draw's a win for our side.'

Bloch - Ivan (Jan) S. Bloch, a pre-WWI Polish writer who held that war between major powers would be an impracticable stalemate, bankrupting the participants without producing decisive victory.

They had discussed the political situation fifty times or so, and the war correspondent was weary of it. He stretched out his limbs.

'Aaai s'pose it is!' he yawned.

Flut!

'What was that?'

'Shot at us.'

The war correspondent shifted to a slightly lower position.

'No one shot at him,' he complained.

'I wonder if they think we shall get so bored we shall go home•'

The war correspondent made no reply.

'There's the harvest, of course....'

They had been there a month. Since the first brisk movements after the declaration of war things had gone slower and slower, until it seemed as though the whole machine of events must have run down. To begin with, they had had almost a scampering time; the invader had come across the frontier on the very dawn of the war in half-a-dozen parallel columns behind a cloud of cyclists and cavalry, with a general air of coming straight on the capital, and the defender horsemen had held him up, and peppered him and forced him to open out, to outflank, and had then bolted to the next position in the most approved style, for a couple of days, until in the afternoon, bump! they had the invader against their prepared lines of defence. He did not suffer so much as had been hoped and expected: he was coming on, it seemed, with his eyes open, his scouts winded the guns, and down he sat at once without the shadow of an attack and began grubbing trenches for himself, as though he meant to sit down there to the very end of time. He was slow, but much more wary than the world had been led to expect, and he kept convoys tucked in and shielded his slow-marching infantry sufficiently well to prevent any heavy adverse scoring.

'But he ought to attack,' the young lieutenant had insisted.

'He'll attack us at dawn, somewhere along the lines. You'll get the bayonets coming into the trenches just about when you can see,' the war correspondent had held until a week ago.

The young lieutenant winked when he said that.

When one early morning the men the defenders sent to lie out five hundred yards before the trenches, with a view to the unexpected emptying of magazines into any night attack, gave way to causeless panic and blazed away at nothing for ten minutes, the war correspondent understood the meaning of that wink.

'What would you do if you were the enemy?' said the war correspondent, suddenly.

'If I had men like I've got now?'

'Yes.'

'Take those trenches.'

'How?'

'Oh - dodges! Crawl out half-way at night before moon-rise, and get into touch with the chaps we send out. Blaze at 'em if they tried to shift, and so bag some of 'em in the daylight. Learn that patch of ground by heart, lie all day in squatty holes, and come on nearer next night. There's a bit over there, lumpy ground, where they could get across to rushing distance - easy.

In a night or so. It would be a mere game for our fellows; it's what they're made for.... Guns? Shrapnel and stuff wouldn't stop good men who meant business.'

'Why don't they do that?'

'Their men aren't brutes enough; that's the trouble. They're a crowd of devitalized townsmen, and that's the truth of the matter. They're clerks, they're factory hands, they're students, they're civilized men. They can write, they can talk, they can make and do all sorts of things, but they're poor amateurs at war. They've got no physical staying power, and that's the whole thing. They've never slept in the open one night in their lives; they've never drunk anything but the purest water-company water; they've never gone short of three meals a day since they left their feeding-bottles. Half their cavalry never cocked leg over horse till it enlisted six months ago. They ride their horses as though they were bicycles – you watch 'em! They're fools at the game, and they know it. Our boys of fourteen can give their grown men points. ... Very well –'

The war correspondent mused on his face with his nose between his knuckles.

"If a decent civilization,' he said, 'cannot produce better men for war than –'

He stopped with belated politeness. 'I mean –'

'Than our open-air life,' said the young lieutenant.

'Exactly,' said the war correspondent. 'Then civilization has to stop.'

'It looks like it,' the young lieutenant admitted.

'Civilization has science, you know,' said the war correspondent. 'It invented and it made the rifles and guns and things you use.'

'Which our nice healthy hunters and stockmen and so on, rowdy-dowdy cowpunchers and nigger-whackers, can use ten times better than – What's that?'

'What?' said the war correspondent, and then seeing his companion busy with his field-glass he produced his own: 'Where?' said the war correspondent, sweeping the enemy's lines.

'It's nothing,' said the young lieutenant, still looking.

'What's nothing?'

The young lieutenant put down his glass and pointed. 'I thought I saw something there behind the stems of those trees. Something black. What it was I don't know.'

The war correspondent tried to get even by intense scrutiny.

'It wasn't anything,' said the young lieutenant, rolling over to regard the darkling evening sky, and generalized: 'There never will be anything any more for us. Unless –'

The war correspondent looked inquiry.

"They may get their stomachs wrong, or something - living without proper drains.'

A sound of bugles came from the tents behind. The war correspondent slid backward down the sand and stood up. 'Boom!' came from somewhere far away to the left. 'Halloa!' he said, hesitated, and crawled back to peer again. 'Firing at this time is jolly bad manners.'

The young lieutenant was uncommunicative for a space.

Then he pointed to the distant clump of trees again. 'One of our big guns. They were firing at that,' he said.

'The thing that wasn't anything?'

Something over there, anyhow.'

Both men were silent, peering through their glasses for a space. 'Just when it's twilight,' the lieutenant complained. He stood up.

'I might stay here a bit,' said the war correspondent.

The lieutenant shook his head. 'There's nothing to see,' he apologized, and then went down to where his little squad of sun-brown, loose-limbed men had been yarning in the trench. The war correspondent stood up also, glanced for a moment at the businesslike bustle below him, gave perhaps twenty seconds to those enigmatical trees again, then turned his face toward the camp.

He found himself wondering whether his editor would consider the story, of how somebody thought he saw something black behind a clump of trees, and how a gun was fired at this illusion by somebody else, too trivial for public consumption.

'It's the only gleam of a shadow of interest,' said the war correspondent, 'for ten whole days.

'No,' he said presently; 'I'll write that other article, "Is War Played Out?"'

He surveyed the darkling lines in perspective, the tangle of trenches one behind another, one commanding another, which the defender had made ready. The shadows and mists swallowed up their receding contours, and here and there a lantern gleamed, and here and there knots of men were busy about small fires. 'No troops on earth could do it,' he said....

He was depressed. He believed that there were other things in life better worth having than proficiency in war; he believed that in the heart of civilization, for all its stresses, its crushing concentrations of forces, its injustice and suffering, there lay something that might be the hope of the world; and the idea that any people, by living in the open air, hunting perpetually, losing touch with books and art and all the things that intensify life, might hope to resist and break that great development to the end of time, jarred on his civilized soul.

Apt to his thought came a file of the defender soldiers, and passed him in the gleam of a swinging lamp that marked the way.

He glanced at their red-lit faces, and one shone out for a moment, a common type of face in the defender's ranks: ill shaped nose, sensuous lips, bright clear eyes full of alert cunning, slouch hat cocked on one side and adorned with the peacock's plume of the rustic Don Juan turned soldier, a hard brown skin, a sinewy frame, an open, tireless stride, and a master's grip on the rifle.

The war correspondent returned their salutations and went on his way.

'Louts,' he whispered. 'Cunning, elementary louts. And they are going to beat the townsmen at the game of war!'

From the red glow among the nearer tents came first one and then half-a-dozen hearty voices, bawling in a drawling unison the words of a particularly slab and sentimental patriotic song.

Tuesday, June 7, 2016

The origin of the Cruiser concept

During the interwar the doctrine of the War Office changed, especially after testing different tankettes, the Medium Mk.I and the Light Mk.I/II in real time exercises. It was clear by 1935, in the context of the economical crisis, that only two main models would be kept for service, an infantry tank, slow but well-protected, and a cruiser tank, to exploit breakthroughs and attack deep behind enemy lines. The concept in itself already had been tested in 1918 with the Mark A Whippet, replaced by the Mark C and D, which were kept in service until the late twenties. But new technologies gave new solutions, and there were plenty of available mechanical parts on the market and suitable engines to make a cheap, fast, lightly protected, but well-armed model. With a tight budget, Vickers-Armstrong, the main tank supplier of the British Army, turned to its dream team and also hired John Carden to work on the project. However Carden died in a plane accident in December 1935, and when the final specifications came out, work on the plans had barely advanced.

The Evil Empire on the Brazos(BEE) chronicles the on goingwars (games) and the diplomaticefforts (Posts/GNN Reports) ofall the known nations (wargamecollections) in my little area of thegalaxy.My goal is to both entertain

and inform those new to art ofminiature wargaming, and have afew laughs with it. This Blog isopen to all and also welcomescomment from all and I hopethat many will come to join inthe madness.....)